Sweat & Sparkle

Seeing this picture recently took me waaaaaay back…

Anyone else remember the Oil of Olay lotion in glass bottles? Oh, it smelled so good!

My mom didn’t like a lot of make-up, but she had a little white cabinet in our bathroom with her small collection of lipsticks and her Oil of Olay. I liked to watch her nightly routine, washing her face, opening that tiny white cabinet to get the Oil of Olay. Sometimes she would dab a little on my hand, and I would feel so grown up, gently patting it onto my face like she did, as she reminded me, “Use upward strokes.”

My father’s skin was always dark, even in the winter, and I don’t remember ever seeing him with a sunburn. My mother was the opposite: fair skinned, easily burned, prone to freckles, like me. I don’t know how a mix of genes from both of them gave me 100% pale white skin that practically ignites in the sun, but they made it happen.

I have never been a sun-worshipper. Maybe it’s because I learned so well from my mom. She always took great care of her skin, and well into her 80s, people did not believe her age. She never made skincare seem like a chore or hassle. She presented it like a gift to herself, an essential part of her daily routine.

A tan is something I simply never thought of as attractive or healthy. When I see someone with a tan, I just see senseless sun damage. I don’t get why anyone would willingly do that to their skin. And when I see someone who already has wrinkle upon wrinkle, then eagerly runs out and bakes in the sun until their face is like desiccated leather…just why?

My husband and the kids still joke about me militantly chasing them down with sunscreen at the beach, at the pool, at every outdoor event. My husband says I put so much sunscreen on the kids that they squirted when they walked. I always say, “But they never had a sunburn on my watch.” And they didn’t. The kids had some nasty sunburns over the years, but that always happened when they were with someone else. Never with me.

For years, I also used Olay. I watched it transition from glass bottles to plastic, to tubes and serums, and sadly, none of them smell like that pretty pink lotion anymore. I switched to another brand when I no longer liked Olay’s products, but I haven’t forgotten anything that my mom taught me. I still wash my face every night (well, okay, most nights). I still religiously protect my skin from the sun.

So far, it seems to be working. Most people guess my age as much lower than it actually is, just like they did with my mom. I still have freckles, no matter what, just like my mom, and they make me smile, seeing echoes of her face in mine.

I would give anything to be standing at that bathroom counter again, watching my mom in the mirror, mimicking her night-time routine, the scent of that pink lotion on my fingertips long after we had finished. I will think of her tonight when I wash my face and pull a bottle of lotion from the cabinet. I will think of her when I meet my own eyes in the mirror.

And I might want to cry, might get that tightness in my chest as a faded memory suddenly rushes to the surface and squeezes my heart until I’m breathless, but I will also smile. Her gestures, her habits, and her memories live on with me. And, in her honor, I will continue to mercilessly chase my husband around and slather him thoroughly with sunscreen!